Magic
by EricaHarp
Summary: France doesn't believe in the imaginary, until the day he sees it with his own eyes. Present day fic mainly centered around France and England.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya

...

France knew something was wrong as soon as the scent hit him. A very foul odor assaulted his nose upon opening the door, smelling something of rotten eggs, burning plastic, and very ripe Camembert. Mixed with the floral lavender-rose perfume of his house, it was positively revolting. And France also knew exactly who was causing it.  
>He sprinted down to the left room at the end of the corridor. Pinching his nose delicately as he stepped into the source of the smell, he glared at the sight before him. Of course it was damn Englishman.<p>

The new G8 Summit was currently being held at Lyon, and England had asked if he could stay a France's house for the time being. There were plenty of good hotels around the area, but England had insisted it was to "save money". France had been happy to let England stay however, since work and busy schedules had kept them from seeing much of each other lately. Now he was beginning to regret that decision.

"_Qu'est-ce que tu fais?_"

"Pardon?" the head of messy blond hair asked, not even bothering to look up from the tattered book he was peering at.

"_Qu'est-ce. Que. Tu. Fais?" _France enunciated the words sharply in attempt to slow his rising irritation.

"Don't hold your nose like that, it makes you sound even more nasally than you usually do," England quipped. "I'm making a potion, obviously."

France groaned. England had managed to find a small cooking burner that France had once used to make fondue. How he had found it, France had no idea. He tried to remember if the Englishman had ever stayed in his apartment in Lyon before. England had visited him too many times to count. Regardless, there was now a pot containing a very foul-looking green liquid, simmering on the burner.

"Why?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I had a couple old recipes I wanted to try. I've been getting a little rusty in my magic, lately," England answered, inspecting his concoction.

France sighed,"You and your silly magic. What do you see in it anyways? There's no supreme force that just makes things happen,"

England raised his head and fixed France with a pretentious gaze.

"_You_ might not have the mental capacity to perceive things out of the ordinary, but that doesn't mean you can demean others who do."

"Well, _you_ have stunk up the entire apartment. Hopefully the smell won't stick to my suit."

The Frenchman was in no mood to bicker over delusions today. Perhaps it was best to leave England to his strange hobbies.

"I'm going out. There's food in the kitchen, so make sure you eat something. And try not to set anything on fire."

Green eyes glanced up to shoot glare, but France chose to ignore it. He walked back to the front door, checking his hair in the corridor mirror one last time, before stepping out.

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><p><em><strong>Qu'est-ce que tu fais? - What are you doing?<strong>_

((Wow, I just realized I have started two fanfictions with a character smelling something bad. Next time I walk into a room with a bad odeur, I'm going to start hyperventilating. ))

Thank you for reading this and please follow! I will try to update frequently. This story was actually inspired by a song, which I'll reveal at the end if you haven't guessed already. ;)

_Merci _~ E.H.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya

...

"You know what this world needs?" slurred Spain, lazily slapping a hand on France's back.

"What does this world need?" France asked, raising an eyebrow and carefully moving his glass of Cognac before Spain could accidentally knock it over.

"Everybody needs, - to relax. I mean, there's no more full-on fighting, but you'd think there would be. You should see the glares I get sometimes at meetings."

Prussia snorted.

"To be honest with you, I'm not really surprised. Seeing how you and Romano are both knee-deep in deb-"

"Hey!" Spain yelled, jumping up from his seat. Now, France's Cognac had spilled.

"Stop it, you two." He scolded.

The infamous "Bad Touch Trio" were currently sitting at a bar. France had recommended the place, it being in a more remote part of the city and not particularly well known. A girl with long, shiny blonde hair walked past him, catching his eye. He noted that she was fairly attractive, but had no intent to speak to her. France motioned to the bartender to refill his glass.

They hadn't been here for more than three hours, but he was already starting to get a headache. The late-night excursion was supposed to be relaxing. France found that the bright lights and loud music weren't captivating him like they used to. Besides, he had to go home and make sure his kitchen hadn't exploded and maybe get some sleep. Politics were tiring. He drained the rest of his drink.

"Alright, I'm going to take an early leave. Preußen, make sure España gets to his hotel. I don't trust him to get there safely own his own."

"Got it."

"_No he bebido nada_!" Spain protested.

Prussia rolled his eyes and waved the Spaniard off.

"Take care, France!"

"You too!"

A cold autumn breeze ruffled his blond hair as soon as he swung open the door. The warm glow from street lamps and stores illuminated each tiny drop of mist that was slowly raining down. It seemed as if stars were falling from the sky. A fierce green neon sign shone in a pub window. It reminded France of England's eyes a little. Voices rushed through the night and the distant clamor of traffic echoed from a road several feet away. Every time France thought he knew everything there was to know about his cities, he'd step out again, and realize that he didn't.

He pulled his jacket collar closer to his neck, attempting to ward of the midnight chill. He decided not to call a taxi, opting to take an alternate route winding through the back streets. Maybe the fresh air would help to clear his mind a bit. So he turned from the main road and walked briskly down an ally way. A few minutes later, France began to get an odd sensation. He hadn't felt like this in a long, long time. Yet the feeling was unmistakable. A suspicious prickling tingled down his spine, and his senses suddenly heightened.

Someone was following him.

France began to quicken his pace, ears straining to detect footsteps that weren't his own. He heard them. They weren't trying to be particularly quiet either. Actually, they weren't. It was the heavy footfall of a man, who was probably larger than France. Now, France wasn't at all a "small" man. He had an athletic and toned physique, and was a model height. But people wouldn't classify him to be a wrestler or rugged mountaineer or to look like a certain German he knew.

However, France wasn't the slightest bit worried. He could probably fight off the man and he had little money on his personage. It annoyed him a little though. A citizen mugging his very own country – how ironic…

What France wasn't expecting, was to be ambushed.

Out of a corner turning left, that was shrouded in shadow, a dark figure suddenly rushed in front of France, cutting off his path. A handgun was aimed between his eyes. He didn't panic, although his heart started pounding as an immediate adrenaline reaction. France heard the attacker behind him start running, and when the man was a foot away from him, France spun around and ducked his head low. He grabbed the man's waist and smelled cigarette smoke as his face was inadvertently pressed into the perpetrator's shirt. France wound his shin across the man's knee, forcefully knocking one of the man's legs off balance, and spun the body in front of him as a temporary shield.

Shots rang out. Then another person slammed into France from the right. There was a third assailant. He gasped as he received a kick in the ribs, losing his breath. He would have nearly lost his footing as well, had a pair of hands not wrenched his shoulders up. Alcohol was certainly not helping his motor skills right now. A thick arm wrapped itself around France's neck, pinning him in a choke-hold. France felt cold metal being pressed to his temple. A low voice rumbled near his ear, making a chill spread over his skin.

"_Ne bougez pas_."

Before France could reply or even attempt to break free, a fist collided with the back of his head and everything turned black.

* * *

><p><strong><em>No he bebido nada - I haven't drunk anything<em>**

**_Ne bougez pas - Stand still/Don't move_**

This was supposed to be a nice fluff story, but now it's turned into a... Well, I was racking my brains for what was going to happen next and for some reason my brain really, really wanted France to be attacked. (sorry France) I don't know why. Also I feel as if I have to explain a few things. A headcanon that I have, is that all countries should be able to engage in combat and handle weapons, given their histories, albeit some a bit better than others. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and sticking with this crazy plot for now.

_Merci! ~ E.H._


End file.
